“Mom,” she proclaimed to me one day
“I know that Santa isn’t real
I know it’s you. I’m twelve.”
And she looked to me to agree
I stood there looking back,
Shivering like a wind-blown tree.

Her face was smooth her eyes were blue
And calm like mountain lakes
Her ears tilted up in waiting
Her straw blond hair sloshing behind in wakes
Hair that once was not so long
Hair that once was mere tumbleweed
Taking a rest atop her head
Or upon my cheek as I lay in bed.

Voice that once would babble on
Light and scurrying like a mouse,
Through a mouth like piano keys,
Of witches and a gingerbread house.

Eyes that’d sparkle like sunlit shores
To see the crumb-filled cookie plate
And the red bowed box beside it
And then footsteps that could not wait
Eyes that stare back at me now
Beneath a slowly raising brow.
“Well I guess it’s about time,”
I force a grin and say
And try to reassure myself
Of the joy I’ll still feel on Christmas Day.